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Blue Moon 14.5

by Donna Lamb

Lyrics by Erin Halfelven

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Neither of them watched the local news broadcast on the small television suspended from the ceiling. The muted sound didn't attract their attention and for a long while neither said anything. Outside the window, the sun peeped over the mountains on one of those brilliant February mornings that people move to Los Angeles to enjoy. It would get up to eighty degrees F, later; a warm day with most of the smog blown out to sea on a rare east wind.

The silence continued, comfortable but with a hint of waiting. The room brightened. Finally, the man in the chair stirred.

He pulled an acoustic guitar from around his back, a habit he'd picked up from a friend. His fingers had gotten raw and sore from all the picking and playing he'd done in the days since the night of the blue moon but you can't bring a drum kit into a hospital room.

"I wrote a song for you," Richard told the slender figure in the hospital bed. "I'll just strum the chords, Bugs has a nice picking pattern for it but I'm not that good."

The simple progression, G, Em, C, D, lent itself to the melancholy verses and kept him well within his range.

I lie awake through lonely nights
Just trying to forget.
I should go out to the city lights
'Stead of staying home to fret.

I've closed the drapes and pulled the blind
'Cause I know we may be through
But something keeps you on my mind --
I'm not done with loving you.

Was I too young, my love too tender,
Why do these questions start?
When darkness falls I know I'll remember
The night you broke my heart.

The days go by like roadside signs
Asking don't I need some rest?
But the question that's still on my mind
Is did I fail some test?

And running through the lonely night
Down a track so straight and true
The answer is still clear and bright --
I'm not done with loving you.

Was I too young, my love too tender,
Why do these questions start?
When darkness falls I know I'll remember
The night you broke my heart.

"It'll sound prettier when you sing it," said Richard.

"What's it called?" Jo asked, her voice sleepy from the medication.

"The Night You Broke My Heart," he said.

"I didn't, did I?"

He sighed. "Well, yes, you did. You nearly did because you almost died. The bullet nicked an artery and you bled -- a lot." He looked uncomfortable; remembering the night of the shooting always gave him a lump in the throat and made him feel as if he had a case of double vision. If Angelynne Foster with her first aid training hadn't been nearby, Jo might have bled out before the paramedics arrived. Richard knew he would never have thought of using ice on a bullet wound to slow the bleeding.

She shook her head, a small movement because she had nearly fallen asleep while he sang. "I'm okay. I'll have to write some new verses 'cause the name of the song is 'I'm Not Done With Loving You'." She smiled up at him before closing her eyes.

The attendant and surgical nurses appeared in the doorway. He nodded at them and they released the brakes on Jo's bed to wheel her down to surgery again. The surgeons had got the bullet out the night of the shooting but they had to go back in to repair some of the damage done and keep her shoulder joint from being permanently frozen.

He got up to stand by the bed for a moment and the nurses paused long enough for him to gently place a kiss on Jo's cheek. The pre-surgery medication had taken full effect and she didn't stir but a small smile seemed to twitch at the corners of her mouth.

After the gurney and attendants had gone, Richard sat alone in the empty room, playing with chords in the early morning light. He imagined Jo's voice lifting the song above his pedestrian chords. He sang:

I lie awake through lonely nights
Just trying to forget.
I should go out to the city lights
'Stead of staying here to fret.

I've pulled the drapes and closed the blind
All day long and all night through
Something keeps you on my mind --
I'm not done with loving you.

Was I too young, my love too tender,
Why do these questions start?
When darkness falls I know I'll remember
The night you stole my heart.

The days go by like roadside signs
Asking don't I need some rest?
But the question that's still on my mind
Is did I fail some test?

And running through the lonely night
Down a track so straight and true
The answer is still clear and bright --
I'm not done with loving you.

Was I too young, my love too tender,
Why do these questions start?
When darkness falls I know I'll remember
The night you stole my heart.

Richard wiped his eyes and slung the guitar across his back again. "Arnie should have been here to record that, I'll never sing it that well again." He smiled. "But Jo will."

Something on the television caught his attention and he retrieved the remote from it's metal basket on the wall to turn the sound up.

Lemon Eater Jones looked out of the screen, smiling as if he'd just invented the blues. Some cheerful news-voice off camera asked, "What kind of music does your band play?"

Lemon looked thoughtful. "I guess you could say we put the fun back into funkabilly. We're part blues, part country, part rock and all par-tay. Music you gotta dance to that means something."

"You're getting some airplay with the tracks your sound man made the night of the shooting. You had any offers on a recording contract yet?"

"We're not considering any until Melody Jo is out of the hospital. Wouldn't be fair to anyone."

Richard smiled, knowing that all the offers they'd received had been contingent on Jo's recovery. Lemon had a nice way with spinning the facts.

"What about the name of the band? What's the reason for the unusual name"

"We call ourselves I-NO-Y, because believe me, all of us do."

"And Melody Terry was your lead singer?"

Lemon shook his head. "We all sing, we all write music, we all play three or four different instruments. Even our sound man plays keyboards and sings bass when we need him. Melody Jo is just sweeter and braver than the rest of us."

"What do you think of Assemblyman Aronhaus standing by his wife after the shooting?"

Lemon's lips twisted. "He should have stood in front of her."

"Is Melody going to be back with the band if she recovers the use of her arm?"

"She'll be back. Nothing stops that lady. A few weeks of rehab are just a good time to write more songs."

"What if she can't play the keyboards or guitar again?"

"She can play tambourine and I bet she can learn to play a wicked left-handed horn. Besides, she can sing the feathers off a nightingale and the wind off the mountain." Lemon wiped his eyes. "She'll be back, we'll be back. I-NO-Y. We all do."

Richard turned the sound off again, wiping his own eyes. Jo's mom, Beverly Messenger stood at the door. "I brought you some coffee."

He nodded, staking the cup from her with a murmured thanks.

"Jill and Andie are in the waiting room. Arnie, Bugs and Kylie are in the van in the parking lot, jamming with those kids from the club. Your mom and sisters are waiting to hear from you in the coffee shop."

"Lemon's on TV," said Richard. He nodded his head toward the set.

"That's a tape, I saw it last night. Lemon went up to see Gogie in the rest home in San Fernando. Said he couldn't stand to be nearby while they cut on Jo, afraid he might have to hurt someone."

Richard smiled. Lemon's tenderess, Arnie's multi-channel focus, Kylie's practicality and Bugs's hidden emotions had become as familiar to him in the last few days as the quirks of his own family.

Strange dreams had troubled all of the band the last few days, dreams in which Richard had taken the bullet instead of Jo. In all of the dreams, Jo had rescued Richard from death in some fantastic fashion. Bugs had dreamed she'd bargained her right arm away to Cerberus to get entrance to hell in order to retrieve Richard's soul.

They all recognized that the dreams were true in some way they didn't understand.

Richard and Jo's mom walked along the hospital corridor together.

"She's going to be okay," said Beverly.

"I know."

"She loves you."

He shook his head.

"She does."

"I know," said Richard. "And I love her. I know why I do, but why does she love me?"

Mrs. Messenger laughed. "Love isn't about reasons, Richard. It just is. No one knows why -- or needs to. If you're wise enough to recognize it and bold enough to seize it -- it's yours."